


Good Boy

by Brynncognito



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Begging, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hand Jobs, Impact Play, M/M, Other, POV Second Person, Riding Crops, Submissive Tom, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 16:00:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1310731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynncognito/pseuds/Brynncognito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom Hiddleston/Reader, with gender-neutral language!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god, I'm going to the special hell for this. But there was a lot of Hiddles being painfully submissive on my dash, and I just wanted to do filthy, kinky things to him. I really, really don't normally get into the RPF, and if it's not your cup of tea, I totally understand. Just avoid reading it instead of leaving hate, yeah?
> 
> No real warnings to add, save for the tags, that I can think of. Brief mention of foot fetish, but not in "Reader/Tom has it" kind of way.

Though he’s on his knees like a good boy, like you _told_ him to be, there’s still a part of you that’s positively itching to give Tom’s hair a vicious tug, or perhaps give his face a _slap._ This might have something to do with the fact that Tom’s lips are parted, moist where his tongue’s darted over them nervously and _far_ too inviting. Or maybe it’s the light flush on his cheeks or the heave of his chest, proof that he’s enjoying this at least as much as you are. Likely it’s just the fact that he looks _far_ too good on his knees, like he was made for it.

“I’m sorry, _what was that_?” Your lips twist into a sadistic little smile, and you can almost _see_ the nervous thrum of Tom’s pulse now beneath his slightly stubbled jawline. He amends himself quickly, tacks on the title you’d _told_ him to add to every answer to your question. Your smile widens.

“Much better.”

You’d asked him if he was going to be _good_ for you now, and he’d responded affirmatively. Of course, both of you _know_ this doesn’t mean the fun’s going to stop. He’s still going to be _punished_ , just in a way you’ll both enjoy much better.

“Now undress for me.”

It’s almost a crime, to make the man shed his beautifully tailored attire, because he looks _so_ good in the remainder of his three-piece suit. You think he looks even _better_ without the jacket, truthfully, though it had accentuated his shoulders in a flattering way.

Tom bites down on his lower lip, briefly, like he’s worried about the state of his attire or what will happen to it. Silly man. You _know_ he can afford to replace it, if necessary, but he is a fairly prim and proper creature.

“I’m _waiting_.” This time, there’s an impatient edge to your voice, a subtle warning that he _doesn’t_ want to get on your bad side. Tom immediately murmurs his acknowledgement of your order and an apology, and _this_ time he remembers the title. Clever boy.

As almost obscenely long fingers begin unfastening the buttons on his vest where he remains kneeling, your eyes latch onto the motions automatically. He’s _beautiful_ , truly, and you still can’t believe you have him at your mercy.

Tom slides his dark grey vest off, folding it swiftly yet carefully before setting it aside. His tie is next, blue silk in a half-Windsor that doesn’t distract over-much from his pretty face. He takes a moment to fold this, too, and though you’re growing impatient again, you allow it.

The wait while Tom removes his vest and tie is well worth it once he finally begins to unfasten his shirt. A plain cotton tank top becomes visible almost immediately, though you can still see where the flush in his face has spread to the pale flesh of his chest. Your lips quirk into another smirk at that, and Tom licks his lips in response, his gaze flicking up to your face, then away again.

You’re fairly sure Tom is unfastening each button of his dress shirt as slowly as possible, and your lips purse as your eyes slide to the wall, where your riding crop’s hanging. Then again, that wouldn’t really be _punishment_ for him, not the kind that would encourage him to hurry. You shift your weight pointedly instead, arms crossing while you stare him down. Tom’s fingers move marginally faster in response, and he finally tugs it untucked so he can unfasten the last few buttons. Then, he has to fold his shirt with even more care than he’s shown his other garments. _Naturally._

“On your feet. I want to see the rest properly.” Tom’s head dips slightly in response to the command, and he climbs to his feet slowly. Before he resumes undressing properly, though, he displays frankly absurd flexibility and balance while he removes his shiny black loafers and dress socks. You’re not really that into feet, but if you were, you’re pretty sure you’d _love_ his.

Tom hesitates for a moment once he’s barefoot, fingers hesitating as if he’s not sure whether to go for his tank top or trousers next. Your head tilts slightly, and you frown in consideration for about a second or two.

“Tank top first.” Tom’s lips twitch like he’s trying to suppress a smile, like he knows how hungry you are to see the full extent of his freckles. They’re faint, true, and he’s gained just enough of a tan that they’re even harder to see, but they’re _there_ , and they’re _beautiful._

The tank top’s peeled up and off in one smooth motion, and this time when he folds you can _tell_ he’s doing it just to be difficult. There’s something faintly mischievous in his expression, like he’s _daring_ you to call him out on it. And oh, you’re tempted to. That riding crop _is_ within reach, after all.

“Trousers,” you prompt unnecessarily. As his fingers descend to his belt buckle, you casually cross the room in just a few steps to grab your crop. Tom’s fingers still automatically as his gaze flicks to the implement, and you respond by giving him a swat to the chest hard enough to make him hiss slightly.

“ _Trousers._ ” Tom’s breathing more heavily now, but the hard look you give him assures him that he’ll get worse than the _riding crop_ if he misbehaves further. He swallows, finishes unfastening his belt, then the button and zip of his trousers. When he slides them down and steps out of them, his arousal becomes _impossible_ to ignore; even his boxers can’t quite obscure his erection.

Tom folds his trousers, but he seems a bit more hurried than he’d been with his other articles of clothing, a bit more _nervous._ You smile knowingly, even as he adds them to the stack of his attire.

“And now the boxers.” Oh, and _there’s_ more of that beautiful blush. This time, it spreads all the way to the tips of his ears. How cute. He actually starts to respond, to _argue_ , but you cut him off firmly.

“ _Now_ , pet.” That one little word, combined with your tone of voice, makes Tom exhale shakily. He can’t help but obey now, pulling his boxers down in one swift motion that makes the waistband catch his cock momentarily and send it bobbing almost comically free. You step closer as his boxers fall to rest around his ankles, and he takes an automatic half-step back that tangles his feet in the discarded garment. He actually swears softly, kicking his legs free, face aflame.

“Against the wall. Palms flat. Arse out.” You can practically see Tom tremble in anticipation, but he carefully does as he’s told. A quick swat at one thigh once he’s in position makes him jerk and spread his legs more widely. _Much_ better.

While you’re sadistic, you aren’t _so_ evil as to lay into him without a good warm-up. You land caresses and soft swats against the flesh of his thighs and buttocks, getting him warm and tingling. By the time you’ve progressed to the kind of swats that stand out livid against his skin, he’s shifting in place, stifling quiet groans and whimpers. Good boy that he is, Tom hasn’t touched himself _yet_ , though you’re sure he must be _throbbing_ by now.

Ignoring his likely discomfort in _that_ aspect, you work your way up to the kind of stinging swats that will have Tom unable to sit comfortably for _hours._ If you’re lucky, he’ll leave with a few welts that will last for longer, but the riding crop’s far from ideal for that. However, Tom _does_ seem to be the type to mark very easily.

After a while, the room’s filled with heavy panting, grunts, groans, and the vicious _slap_ of leather on flesh. Your arm’s beginning to tire, but thankfully, Tom finally gives a _different_ sort of cry, one that’s a little more pained, and you pause.

“Need a moment?” You’re breathing almost as heavily as he is. Tom nods, licks his lips before murmuring an affirmative response.

Setting the riding crop down, you approach Tom more closely to run your fingers over the raised marks you’ve left. There’s some purple mottling already amidst the vibrant red, and you can’t help but push down on a bruise for a half-second just to feel him jerk away from you with a gasp.

“Shhh, that’s a good boy,” you coo, leaning in now to press your body against him. Your hands run over his bare chest, which you’ve held off on touching until now, each thumb and forefinger pinching a nipple before sliding all the way down his stomach to grasp his cock. He’s hard and hot, leaking readily, and he thrusts into the contact as soon as you touch him.

Tom gasps, lets out a sound that’s almost _tortured_ as his hands clench into fists against the wall. He’s begging softly, hoarsely, an endless string of “please,” “I need to come, please.”

“Then _come_ ,” you growl, voice rough in his ear. Your fist pumps Tom’s length swiftly and ruthlessly, and you can feel his whole body tense beneath you a second later before he splatters the wall with his cum. You stroke him through his orgasm, wringing every last ounce of pleasure you can from his overworked body, and when the last few drops of his semen spill out over your hand, you simply smear it against his stomach. He’ll need a bath after this anyway, you’re sure.

When Tom’s body slumps, you’re ready for it, and you’re able to carefully ease him into your lap on the floor. He’s still breathing heavily, _clinging_ to you now, and you murmur over and over again what a good boy he was while running your fingers through his hair and down his back.

It takes several minutes for Tom to come down from his pain- and pleasure-induced high, and when he does you’re equally placid, though still no less aroused.

“Ready to show me how _grateful_ you are now, pet?” Like you even have to ask.


End file.
